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"Yourself also."
My pulse rate is still soaring when I hang up the phone. I laugh in the silence of the office.
Help me, God. A weak, soft voice adds, Let me know this is the way. That this is really right.
The phone rings again.
“Pastor McDowell’s office,” I answer.
There’s only breathing on the line, and right away, I’m thrown back into panic territory.
“Yes?” My voice rings out sharp in the quiet room. “I don’t appreciate breathing on a dead line. Is this a threat call?”
“No.” The voice is muffled, but I hear the low note of it.
“Kindly state the purpose of the call, or I’ll be ending it.”
More breathing. I replay the “no” from a moment ago, trying to discern from its sound more about the caller.
“What can I help you with?” I try.
“It’s about you.” His words are whispered.
“What about me?”
“Are you gay?” Okay, this is definitely a younger guy. His voice is muffled, but I’m sure. I’m also pretty sure the words shook.
“Are you okay?” I ask reflexively. “And yes, I am gay.”
“Really gay?” He sounds hoarse.
“Yes. I’m really gay. As gay as one can be.”
There’s silence. For a quick second, I worry he’s hung up.
“You don’t think you’re…going to hell?” His low voice is soft and hesitant. Something warm swells in me—an ugly marriage of rage and impotence and concern.
I think of asking for his age, but that might scare him off, so I say, “No. I don’t think. I would even say I know I’m not. God loves everyone. The essence of God is love. And love is unconditional. Also, some of the more anti-gay sentiments our nation is experiencing are influenced by things like text translations and politics. Thinking people know—can sense—that it’s not sinful to love someone.”
More silence.
“I stand by those words. And you can, too. Trust me. I’m an expert, right?”
I hear him inhale. Then he’s gone. The line is dead, the dial tone sounding, and my hand is sweaty clutched around the phone.
“There’s your sign, McDowell,” I murmur.
After that, I call the money people to ensure we stop all payments to Mitch. We do an outsized portion of our international outreach through their program, since their infrastructure was in place when I was getting started.
Then I text Pearl. ‘Come up to my office at 12:15. Please.’
‘You got it, chief.’
Then I walk downstairs to tell Vance the idea I just shared with Mitch.
Vance
"Where are you?"
I grip my phone. I can't tell if Sky’s pissed or if he's laughing. "I stopped by the doctor's,” I say in a tone that I hope conveys casual.
I can hear his tone change when he says, "What?"
"Yeah, just thought I'd go on by and see someone. Arman had a guy he recommended."
"Arman?” He sounds confused. “You asked Arman for where you should go?"
"Well...yeah. He has a friend in Walnut Creek who—"
"Vance, I have a team of doctors."
Yeah, so maybe he’s pissed. "Okay, Luke, that's good. But I saw someone your good friend Pearl’s husband Arman rec’d. And it went fine."
"Where did you go?"
"He has an office affiliated with John Muir. Near this green space called Heather something park?"
There’s a brief silence, during which I’m sure—like, two hundred percent positive—Sky is seething, and he’s trying not to lean into his type-A control freak urges. "Rayne. I see the best people. If you're going to see someone, it makes sense to—"
"See your doctor?" My anger spikes from out of nowhere. "No, it really doesn't. You're not paying for my medical shit. Not yet, Luke."
"What do you mean?” When I don’t answer—how can I, with gritted teeth?—he says, “Is this about not being married?"
"Wait, I thought we were married." I suck air in through my nose, already patting my pocket for the fucking inhaler.
"We are. That's why I want you going to the same place I go."
"Well, I didn't this time. I can always change up later…if you really want me to."
My shoulders deflate. I feel sorry that I set this up behind his back. My intentions were pure, but I rode to work with him and left on the sly; omitting information is still technically lying, I guess.
"What did he say?" Sky asks, his voice more calm.
"Not that much. Gave me a numbing shot."
"A shot?" Well, that doesn’t sound calm.
I can't help a soft laugh. "Yeah, like it had cortisol and some shit. Used a needle, too, Sky. Anyway, it helped. I'm good as new now." I let my left hand, which looks extra-large compared to my recently casted left arm, hover over the right shoulder—which actually only feels about seventy percent better.
“What did he think?”
That I probably tore my already fucked-up rotator cuff getting ass fucked on an office desk. Not that I told the good doc that part. And I’m not telling Sky the doctor thought the injury was significant. “Ehh, just something I can get more insight into later. Later, I can get an MRI and they'll know more. For now, I feel fine.”
